


Hailstorm of Change

by R_Clearwater



Series: Another Step [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Bones's a doctor not a matchmaker y'all, Crack and Angst, Did we mention angst?, Gen, Harold got to share his perspective on the last one, It's time for John to get a say, M/M, McCoy Whump, PTSD, Reese whump to be specific, Rinch whump, and have a lot of fun while we're at it!, humor and angst, this is it everyone, time to resolve Another Step!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26380498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Clearwater/pseuds/R_Clearwater
Summary: And so, after seven days of agonizing avoidance, he'd finally heard everything. Her meeting withMr. Fernbird, a fake name if ever he heard one. Her theories behind that Mr. Reese. Her breaking the Prime Directive (rightfully so, in his eyes) to save that poor Brazilian girl Sofia. And throughout it all the Southern mutterings held themselves off best they could.That is, the Southern mutterings held themselves off until she concluded her little tale."You mean they’restillnot together?”’Let it be known that Leonard McCoy was tired of beating around the bush.(Especially when it came to the love lives of idiots.)_._Alternatively,anAll Intwist. Featuring a grumpy, well-meaning doctor who unashamedly butts into the repressed lives of a vigilante and a recluse.
Relationships: Harold Finch & John Reese, Harold Finch/John Reese, Nyota Uhura & Leonard McCoy, Somewhat John Reese & Leonard McCoy
Series: Another Step [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917217
Comments: 26
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [M_E_Lover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_E_Lover/gifts).



> **Alternative Title:** "One Small Step For Rinch, One Huge Shove From Their Kindly Southern Doctor"
> 
> **Author's Note:** Distinguished readers, this is going to be a decidedly crackier story than the last one. And to M_E_Lover –– thank you so much for inspiring this! It was originally going to be a one-shot, but has evolved into more of a story :)
> 
> **Disclaimer:** Bones is a doctor not a marriage counselor, y’all. Also, don’t own TOS or POI. Alllsssooo, there'll be a hint of strong language here and there.

She had avoided her kindly Southern doctor twice and had dodged the subject of her little day-trip _thrice._ Needless to say, whatever had rattled Nyota Uhura’s cage was worth at least one bottle of Leonard McCoy’s finest whiskey.

At first, he thought she was depressed. That her time in the 21st century left her feeling lost. After the first conversation, he knew it wasn’t depression. Not in the usual sense. 

(Clearly, an intervention was in order.) 

It took a week. Seven days for the truth to _finally_ come to light. Seven days and, just as he predicted, one of his finer bottles of whiskey. Now it wasn't just the whiskey that had done the trick, oh no siree. First, it was the good ol' fashion checking in. The gently probing questions, the thoughtful pauses, the whole nine yards that came with subtle interrogation.

Yeah, _that_ got nothing. So, out came the whiskey. Only, the whiskey didn't do jack. The whiskey helped to serve as a distraction for a minute, and then it was back to beating around the bush. 

(At least she didn't defend her reluctance with logic. If he heard that word one more time today–– _focus, McCoy._ )

Anyway, there they were, beating around the bush. Again. For the millionth time in what felt like as many days.

Well, he didn't care for emotional blackmail, but she forced his hand. Competent officers like Uhura shouldn't require playing this card. But if it was now time to mention the captain, if it was now time to remind her of his authority as Chief Medical Officer, so be it.

"That won't be necessary." She sighed. Hands fiddled with the glass as though it could shield her. But this was for her own good. Whatever had happened down there was near and dear enough she couldn't just talk about it. Which only proved his suspicion that there was something the woman needed to say. "Just, give me a moment, okay?"

"Of course!"

_About time._

And so, after seven whole days of agonizing avoidance, he'd finally heard everything. Her meeting with _Mr. Fernbird_ , a fake name if ever he heard one. Her theories behind that Mr. Reese. Her breaking the Prime Directive (rightfully so, in his eyes) to save that poor Brazilian girl Sofia. And throughout it all the Southern mutterings held themselves off best they could.

That is, the Southern mutterings held themselves off until she concluded her little tale.

"You mean they’re _still_ not together?”’

Let it be known that Leonard McCoy was tired of beating around the bush. 

(Especially when it came to the love lives of idiots.)

“Look, I hardly know their story––”

“You know enough! And you mean to tell me after everything they’ve gone through, they just don’t get it?” 

“Well, firstly, I've only got theories for what they've gone through."

"You know enough. _"_ Gritted teeth repeated this mantra, this truth even she had to admit. 

"And secondly, I’m sure they’ll figure it out, eventually,”

“Really now?" _In a pig's eye they'll have!_

"Really, Doctor!"

He remained thoroughly unconvinced, "All right. Tell me: why in the name of Sam Hill would they’ve done that?”

“Well,”

But the man had already made up his mind, “Better yet: why are we here, gabbing away when the history’s before us? Computer,”

“Oh, I’m not sure that’s necessary,”

“Please bring up the historic files of subject Harold Fernbird.” 

_“Working.”_ He ignored her pointed sigh as they waited for a response. _“There is no record of a Harold Fernbird.”_

Bones shook his head in disbelief, arms crossed, a belligerent comment at the ready. In his eyes, this only proved his point that –– whatever had happened in the past –– it clearly hadn’t worked out. 

“Computer,” He cocked an eyebrow in the direction of his friend, gesturing for her to continue speaking up. She mentally rolled her eyes, never needing his permission to speak. “History files. Subject: Harold Finch.”

_“Working.”_

“Now that may be better than _Fernbird_ but what kind of a name is ‘Harold Finch’? Better yet, where’d you come up with it? I thought you said you'd told me everything, Lieutenant!” 

But before she could explain herself, the computer was at it again: _“Harold Finch. Summary: Known as the Father of 21st Century Artificial Intelligence. He and his associate John Reese worked together with––”_

“Computer, stop!” Leonard's glare was as sharp as ever, though it was less about anything Uhura'd said and more about the facts. “See? ‘Associate’!” 

“Lots of people had ‘associates’ back in those days, they wouldn’t have been the first!”

“They called them ‘partners’ back then!”

_And just how do you know that? Never mind, I don't want to know._ “Dr. McCoy, I’m sure they worked it out! More importantly, as you very well know, there’s nothing more we can do. The Prime Directive–– oh, don’t give me that look, Leonard, you know we’ve got to follow it! We’re Starfleet officers, we don’t get to bend the rules whenever we like.”

“I’ve gotta wonder about that sometimes,”

Oh, no he wouldn’t! He wouldn’t dare try to interfere, not when she’d already made a mess of things. “Not this time you don’t. Harold and John worked it out, I’m sure of it.”

Nyota's brief interference may have been in the name of a good cause, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d changed something for good. And while a week ago that felt like a reassurance, now she wasn’t so certain. Surely now it was simply better to leave everything well alone? 

Unfortunately, he didn’t share her opinion: “And Spock’s human through and through!”

“Well, much as you don’t like it, there’s nothing we can do.”

Leonard McCoy only looked up at his friend in silence, inwardly fuming. He was never one for just calling it quits. Fact is, he always despised that kind of thinking. What was the point of living if you never did anything? If you never changed anything? ‘Sides, the idea of people going through so much and being so doggone stupid always triggered him, he wasn’t afraid to admit that. 

“Doctor McCoy?” Nurse Chapel poked her head in, too distracted to see he wasn’t alone. “Oh, I didn't realize––”

“It’s all right, Christine,” Nyota tried to reassure the woman with a smile. Suffice it to say, her pained grimace did nothing of the sort. It seemed the officer was firmly of the belief nothing could be done. “I was just leaving anyway.”

Except he couldn’t let her walk away without one more threa–– remark about his original concern: “Do let me know if you ever want to talk again, Lieutenant.” 

(The sentiment underneath it, that he would seek her out if he thought it was necessary, remained unspoken.)

((As did the realization that he couldn’t just leave it well alone, Prime Directive be damned.))


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer:** Once again, distinguished readers, Bones is a doctor not a marriage counselor. Also, still don’t own TOS or POI. 

Nyota might kill him for this.

Bad enough he seemed to be dropped off in Atlantic City instead of, you know, New York. Of course, who was he to let a detour spoil his day? Besides, he didn’t mind taking a moment to catch his breath.

If only he spotted the stranger instead. The one coming out of a limo parked right out front, looking as though he was a playboy in the making.

“There was a stripper pole in that thing, I feel weirdly grimy––” _Wait, where’d he come from?_ But before Leonard could ask a thing, he found himself knocking into the unsuspecting man. The worst part? They’d slammed into a beautiful gold pillar nearby and he was now plummeting onto red carpet. “ _Dude,_ what the hell?”

(If this was all a mistake on the Guardian's part, he was going to be thoroughly pissed.)

_“Duuuudeeeee,”_ There it was again, that irritating noise that would’ve had even Spock’s resolve crumbling. “You could at least _watch_ where you’re going!”

“Sorry.” It was gruff and entirely unapologetic, considering he was still on the floor. But his mama had instilled manners in him, dammit, manners no matter what.

“Yeah, whatever.” Apparently now over the offending act, the stranger barged past him and into the lobby, “Still there, Finc–– dude?”

No. 

No, that couldn’t be possible. 

That irritant of a kid could _not_ be connected to Nyota’s friends. 

This was all a simple, _stupid_ mistake and nothing else.

That slip of the tongue did _not_ indicate anything. 

Nope, nope, _absolutely_ **_not._**

Quietly slipping into the lobby, ignoring the rest of the glitz and glamor designed to lure in every sucker off the street, Leonard snatched up the rest of that strange conversation: “Wow, I’m jealous–– angry. Angry. He must be stopped.”

Okay, if this kid was actually friends with the same people Nyota crossed paths with, the good doctor would eat his hat. As it was, he was determined to follow him. If only to prove that this couldn't be happening. And he was even gonna keep a trained distance as well as a casual air that screamed innocence. Because when he was proven right, he wasn't gonna get mixed up in this man's life. Yes. Even though he would keep trailing behind this obscenely rude man, he refused to believe this would lead anywhere. 

“Welcome to The Venus, Mr. Bao.” A personal greeting, eh? Somebody was a big spender and he doubted it was this Bao character, _if_ that was even his real name. 

“Thank you, sir.” _Oh, so that’s where them manners went, eh, sonny boy?_

McCoy bit back a harrumph, knowing that now was not the time to draw attention. Because, contrary to what a certain pointy-eared hobgoblin thought, he could be subtle. 

“Right this way.”

Well, much as the Starfleet officer wanted to follow them straight into the room and get a good look at the joint, he knew he couldn’t risk it. Not now, when Mr. Bao might remember him and kick up another fuss. No, he’d have to wait a little bit, take a gander elsewhere for the time being, and keep on blending in. 

Besides, there was a fellow off to the side who held his attention, a member of the staff observing everyone from the shadows. Yeah, this was someone who _reeked_ of not belonging here in this gaudy set-up. 

Firstly, Leonard had been to enough of these places to know that no one on the staff just lingered. Casinos were like swans: they did their best to appear effortless, but there was a hell of a storm kicking up from behind the scenes. Secondly, there was something different about this gentleman. And, no, it wasn’t the obvious limp. Sure, that limp caught his medical gaze, but he was a doctor. Injuries, scars, they came with the job. It was the people who carried them that mattered most.

_Now, where exactly was I going with this?_

The point of the original observation escaped him. Either way, now that he gave it some more thought, he was remembering something. Didn’t Nyota mention someone who matched this description? A professor-like character who had gone through his fair share of trauma, both of the physical and emotional kind? 

Could this really be the Mr. Finch she wouldn’t stop talking about?

The good doctor’s eyes stayed with the gentleman, carefully following his movements as he retrieved a cart from the establishment. And, yes, when he saw some tall man in a suit furtively brush up against that very same cart –– there had to be some sort of exchange going on, he just knew it –– he realized he was witnessing Mr. Reese in action.

Which meant _that_ gentleman had to be Harold Finch. 

( _Of course, Doctor,_ a suspiciously familiar voice sounded in his brain, interrupting all other thoughts, _there is still a 87.326% chance––_ )

No need to indulge in those sorts of thoughts, not when there was a problem to fix. 

Out of the corner of his eye, the doctor watched Mr. Finch head on into the private section of the place. When it became clear he wasn’t leaving that area anytime soon, Leonard decided not to follow him in. Might as well avoid getting caught up in whatever they were trying to do, ‘specially since he had no idea what the hell was going on.

_Looks like it’s time to follow that Reese fellow,_ though much good it would do him. Then again, he really hadn’t planned anything special. He just wanted a gander and a chance to fix things. If that meant waiting for this case of theirs to wrap up, then so be it. He could be patient when he wanted to.

Bones gave the vigilante a few minutes to get settled in the main room, not needing to alarm the man. No, he was much more interested in staying off the radar, already feeling out of place without a suit. Of course, when it was time to go in, he casually strode in like he belonged. And, yes, he'd been the one to teach Jim that lesson, _not_ the other way around.

_All right. What do we have here?_ As expected, Finch was still out of sight. But Bao was there, spending all the money in the world. Well, no need to focus on that. Not when Reese was off in the distance, doing a god awful job of looking calm. 

The man was decent at looking discreet, but to trained eyes it was clear he was on some sort of a mission. Interestingly enough, he didn’t seem focused on Bao. He was probably keeping an eye on him, but it wasn’t easy to tell. Instead, he looked to be more attached to shadowing the boss of the joint, keeping a inconspicuous distance–– now what was he doing?

The vigilante had to have heard something, his focus pivoting off toward the sound of a halfhearted whistle. And as he caught sight of the whistler, something changed within him. It was all subtle, but Leonard had been working alongside subtle for years now. 

It only took a few minutes for Mr. Subtle over there to not-quite drag some poor elderly gentleman away from the crowd. And seeing as how the physician was not one to let people be taken advantage of, he wasn’t about to let the two of them out of his sight.

(If only he knew what he was really getting himself involved in...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *dun, dun dunnnnnnn!* We’ll definitely get more into the heart of this little story in the next update :) In any case, I hope you enjoyed that and have a lovely day!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since _ssoommeeeoonneee_ mentioned my knack for teasing (looking at you, dancing_dog!), I’ve decided to combine two segments into one. Enjoy!

By the time he had caught up with the pair, he knew it wasn’t anything like what he’d imagined.

“I made a promise, Harold. To Marilyn, right before she passed.” McCoy stilled himself, making sure to stay around the corner. He knew the kind of conversation he was overhearing. It was the kind he’d had many times. Only, never with his ex-wife. “She grabbed my arm. She _knew_ what I was thinking. That–– that maybe I’d, you know, join her.”

The doctor stiffened further, keeping out of sight. He prepared himself for the worst, ready to step in at a moment’s notice. He didn’t know if this man was still planning on joining this Marilyn. He also didn’t know what Reese was planning, why he’d taken this man away from the crowd. The only thing he knew was that he wouldn’t let anyone play reckless games with life, not on his watch.

“And she told me she didn’t save my life so I could throw it away.” _Good woman,_ Bones thought to himself with an approving nod. But there was more to the conversation, there was someone else speaking the doctor couldn’t hear. 

Soon enough, Lou was responding, incensed: “Laundering drug money? _That’s_ a living? And now to just–– to just run away? No. No, I’m taking back every dime I put in his pocket. Please. I don’t want to die a loser.”

(Yeah. He could get that. His own losses were coming back, prodding his lungs, poking at his heart. The divorce. Joanna. His father. He was forgetting how to breathe. Just for a second, but––)

“And just who are you?”

Leonard had been too damn slow. 

Too caught up in the memories, too oblivious to what was going on around him.

And now that he was finally face-to-face with John Reese, he had no idea what the hell he was supposed to say.

* * *

John was well aware of the feelings running through Lou’s words. He knew what kind of promise the man meant, found his own thoughts drifting toward old regrets. 

(Only this time, it was a train station he envisioned, not an airport. The image flashed. A sky drenched in pollution, the Chrysler just out of sight.)

He stayed focused on Lou, yet instinct drew his observations elsewhere. There was a man tucked away around the corner. He carried hints of military training but didn’t have the bearing of a soldier. And since the man was a terrible tail, giving himself away within seconds, that knocked out the idea of him being a professional.

The vigilante held up a hand for Lou, silently telling him to stay still as he crept toward the unsuspecting target. If there was to be a fight, let their Number stay as far away from it as possible.

When the stranger in question looked to be in the middle of a panic attack, John almost took pity on him.

(The key word being, of course, _almost_.)

“And just who are you?”

The stranger didn’t gasp from the shock, but he was slow on the uptake. John gradually straightened to his fullest height, icy eyes squarely meeting baby blue. He had no qualms about using intimidation tactics to get straight to the point. Especially not when Finch was in the field.

“I,” Southern. Georgian, if he had to guess. “I’m a friend of Nyota’s.” 

_Nyota Scott?_

The name slammed to the forefront of his mind, everything else coming to a halt. _Not possible._

_“Miss Scott?”_ It seemed this stranger wasn’t the only one eavesdropping today. 

John bit back a sigh. He’d forgotten Harold would be catching every word. Worst still, Finch was undoubtedly hooked by this information. His friend had been, much to nobody’s surprise, reclusive about his conversation with Scott. No information had been given, other than that she’d offered him a refreshing perspective. And with Finch it was easy enough to read between the lines: the less information given away, the more meaningful the conversation had to have been.

(John wanted to be jealous, he really did. But he couldn’t bring himself to. Not when the end result was Harold _actually_ opening up about the Root incident.)

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Now the man was becoming testy. But testiness was something John was adept at handling. Testy barbs over tea had become part of his routine, a routine he had come to enjoy more than the job. “I know the whole story about Sofia and your friend Mr. Harold Fernbird, Finch –– whatever his name is. He has a thing for birds, doesn't he? At least it's not logic...”

There was no way in hell the guy could’ve made up the name Fernbird. 

The stranger continued on, oblivious to the internal thoughts of the vigilante, "But I bet he is one for logic, ain't he? Does he have pointy-eared, too? Nah, of course he doesn't. Unless, of course, he does? Now if he did..."

_“Mr. Reese, I do believe he is telling the truth.”_ He probably was. Didn't mean John wanted to take him at his word. _"I also believe that he will continue to speak unless you respond."_

“Anyway if you don’t believe me––”

“I believe you.” Or, rather, he knew Harold believed the man. And that wasn’t enough to convince the vigilante, but he did have to take Harold’s trust into consideration.

It did help that it would be easier to get to the truth if it seemed John trusted this information. 

“You do?” 

John simply looked at him, inwardly pleased that the man was thrown off. It wouldn’t do to upset a friend of Nyota’s, but it felt damn good to throw someone else off guard. Especially considering, now that Nyota Scott was brought up for the first time in months, Harold was likely to swoon at the thought of possibly seeing her again. 

_(Mr. Reese, what was that about not being jealous?_ He could already hear those disdainful words coming through loud and clear, and ignored the fact that his thoughts were beginning to sound more and more like Harold.)

John was brought out of his reverie as the stranger shooed him back a few steps before craning his neck around the corner to spot Lou, “Now I hope you’ve got a plan for winning all that money back. Because I know men like that and, let me tell you, it don’t end well if you don’t got a plan.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Friend of Nyota Scott or not, John wasn’t letting anyone else get involved in this. 

“And don’t think you can rely on that Mr. Bao of yours –– I know his kind all too well.” 

_How––_ The vigilante couldn’t help but throw a cautious stare in the stranger’s direction. His information was far too specific not to trigger wariness.

“Well, he isn’t exactly subtle. Though,” And this next part seemed to hold a lot of irritation, “He is better than _Mudd._ Not much better, but it's something.” 

_“I see.”_ At least Harold seemed equally stumped by the man’s cryptic statements. What about mud was better than Leon Tao, John had no idea. The only thing he knew was that he wasn't going to question it.

“All I’m saying is, if you start betting like hell and end up getting the boss’s attention, I can help keep him distracted. Consider me your self-appointed red herring.”

“Well, I don’t know about the rest of you.” Lou was finally entering the conversation, and John didn’t like the sound of it. “But I like his guts.”

_“Mr. Reese,”_ Damn it. Harold was in agreement. It was _that_ Mr. Reese _._ The one that came when his friend was on the verge of going against common sense. In other words, it was the tone that told him Finch was about to do something he wouldn’t approve of. _“Somehow, I’m inclined to let him help.”_

But before John could defend his position, Lou was walking up the last of the steps and holding out a hand, “You got a name to go along with those guts?”

“Leonard. Leonard McCoy.”

A common name. Too common to find out more about the man just yet.

Not that Finch was about to hand over the reigns to his machine, of course.

* * *

In the end, it was all too easy for Leonard to help them. All he had to do was kick up a drunken fuss, bemoan the fact that he’d lost everything, and keep the boss distracted until the appropriate moment. A complaint about the slot machines, the lousy service. Anything and everything came out of his mouth, pushing the staff to _politely_ drag the doctor out of the hall.

By the time Leonard left the room behind, a suspiciously Vulcan-like underling in tow, he knew the truth. This little act of his wouldn’t be enough to keep the boss away from the con, not when Makris was already wandering over to the wrong table. 

But it would be enough. And knowing Lou would be walking away with a helluva lot of money was worth getting the boot. ‘Course, taking back money from people like Makris wasn’t the reason he came here. But it was a nice bonus. Still, he couldn’t leave now. He had to make sure those idiots got out of the situation alive, after all. And what was the point of deciding to help them get their act together if he left them now?

Once the underling politely checked the slot machine in question, cocking an eyebrow much like someone else he knew, Leonard made sure to kick up far less of a fuss as he scampered off. He wasn’t one for scampering normally, but if he could walk away without attracting anymore attention all the better.

Soon enough, he was freezing to death outside, waiting for everyone else to make it out. Apparently, they were taking their damn sweet time. It only figured––

"Oh no." It was just Lou and Reese stepping out. No Finch in sight. Not even Bao was near, not that Leonard ever expected to deal with the man again.

“Can’t believe it,” The elderly gentleman began to inform Leonard, his voice even despite his hands shaking, “I thought I was gonna die.”

As much as he liked the guy, Bones couldn’t be too sympathetic. First and foremost, he needed some answers about their missing bird. And Lou wasn’t the one who had these answers.

“Where’s your friend, that Mr. Finch?” Because the sooner they all got out of this joint, the sooner he could figure out a real plan for these two lovebirds. Then and only then could he get the hell outta Dodge. 

Reese spared him a glance, unimpressed. He proceeded to tap some sort of earpiece, ignoring Leonard. “Finch, we’re out.”

There didn’t seem to be a response. 

“Finch?” This was not good. All of his instincts were insistent that this could _not_ be good. 

“Is that his name?” 

There have been only a few occasions where Leonard actually felt his blood freeze. Where the temperature plummeted twenty degrees and a chill ruthlessly shoved its way down his spine.

“We found your friend Finch. And Mr. Bao.” He could only imagine what _that_ meant. “You can’t run a casino without being able to spot a fake.”

Where was the _Enterprise_ when you needed it? Hell, he’d take being _beamed_ over this nightmare. 

“I was gonna do this quietly, but now we’re gonna have some fun.”

A day ago, his opinion was that only idiots like Jim and Spock could get themselves in situations like these. These moronic life-or-death moments where you wanted to slap some sense in the world. But out here in the 21st century, in a world where the only help around was about to be handcuffed and shot, he now knew just how wrong he was....

(Suffice it to say, Nyota would _definitely_ be killing him for this. And Jim. And, hell, even Spock, _not_ that the man would ever say as such.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author’s Note:**  
>  Remember how I called this one “Hailstorm of Change”? There was more than one reason for that, as you will see in this chapter.  
>  **Warning:**  
>  This chapter dips into M-territory, and it’s not because of romance.

Pressure was slamming into him, air smashed out of his lungs. The world was tilting backwards, blurring into nothing but shadows and grays as pain exploded within him. Gravity ruthlessly lifted him backwards, dragging him toward the ground, the world darkening and darkening and darkening...

  
  


* * *

  
  


_Five Minutes Earlier_

Metal was sinking its bite mercilessly into Leonard McCoy’s wrists and he was _not_ a fan. 

Turns out he didn’t stand a chance trying to fight off those goons outside. They’d gotten to him long before he could reach for his phaser stashed away. And now, tucked away in some hole, he knew he was running out of options.

_(There are always alternatives, Doctor–– shut up, Spock!)_

“Lou,” His breath startled at the venom in that tone, the doctor desperate to ignore what was coming next. Finch and Reese were to his left, Bao and Lou across the table. Everyone was restrained. And there was already a goddamn knife being brought out into the open. “I had such a nice surprise the other day. A dealer told me that your luck had finally turned. You walked away $500 up. And that’s when I realized you’ve been skimming.”

As a medical practitioner, he didn’t want to see how that bastard was going to abuse that knife. He wanted to focus on getting a bead on the situation, forcing himself to tune out Makris’s statements. He tried to gauge if Reese over there had a plan or if this was going to be one of those stupid, improvise like hell moments. 

“All you had to do was lose, old man.” So much for tuning Makris out. And so much for plans –– the vigilante had frozen up, entirely motionless in his chair. “So before you die, I’m gonna make you realize that you are a loser. And that’s all you’re ever gonna be.”

_(I don’t like the sound of this guy, Bones._ Figures Jim would manage to stick his head in Leonard’s thoughts. If the hobgoblin could do it, why not that captain? _It sounds to me like this Makris is the real loser.)_

_I think you’re right, Jim boy._

“What was that?”

Damn it. His Mama always did warn him his sass would get him in trouble one day. 

“Nothing.” 

It was a pity Makris didn’t believe him. 

It was even more of a pity he couldn’t get to his phaser.

(At least these idiots had overlooked the thing, not even taking it away.)

“Like to play games, do ya?” The gun remained steady despite the dark chuckle. “Yeah, Lou likes to play games, too, dontcha, Lou?”

The doctor moved to speak up, to fight against his restraints and do something. But Makris was past paying attention to him, his eyes fixed on the con artist instead.

_(It’s just as well, Doctor._ He really was going insane if he had the urge to argue against the voices in his head. _Your effectiveness would diminish by 67.91% if you were to proceed as planned–– do I look like I care?)_

“You may skate by for a spin or two,” When the hell had they decided to play Russian Roulette? “But in the end, the house always wins.”

“Leave him alone! Goddamnit, I said leave him alone!” 

Makris kept on ignoring him. This time, however, he also ignored Lou’s protests, the elderly man insisting he would give up all of his money––

A click. 

Nothingness.

_Life._

“Oh, he’s safe. For now.” So the gun moved, fixing itself a new target. And much as Leonard didn’t care for Mr. Bao’s behavior, he couldn’t sentence the man to death.

“Why him?” Bones hurled every bit of outrage he had at the bastard, unwilling to let someone’s life be risked. He’d probably caused this whole mess just by interfering, it had to be all his fault. “He lost all his damn money, didn’t he?”

“Turns out, he didn’t.” Makris was finally responding to him, turning away from Bao and Lou. Good. “But if I remember correctly, _you_ did.”

_(Bones, I don’t like the sound of this...)_

_(Doctor, I have to agree with the Captain in this instance...)_

“Will you both shut up?” Why his mind had chosen to fall to pieces now escaped him. All he knew was that everyone was staring at him –– everyone except for Reese, that is, the coldblooded man.

“This one’s a loose cannon, ain’t he?” The weapon was turning toward him. That gun was coming back into sight. Well, he wasn't happy but he was ready. He’d faced parasitic creatures hellbent on taking over worlds. He’d handled a salt monster disguised as an old flame. He’d even dealt with Spock in Pon Farr and everything that came with that. This was reckless, but it was better than the alternative. “I think I’d be doing you all a favor if I took care of him, don’t you agree?”

“Certainly not.”

_No._ _Not you._

“Oh, really?”

_Anyone but you._

He’d been counting on Harold Finch to be exactly as Nyota described the man: quiet as a damn mouse. Painfully introverted, to the point where he wouldn’t be speaking up in a life-or-death situation. Because, by God, if that man took a bullet right now, if that idiotic man died here tonight, Nyota Uhura would kill Leonard, revive him, and then do it again. 

And again. 

And _again._

She didn’t need to explain how much she cared for Finch. She didn’t have to spell out the fact that he was important to her. That much had been obvious. Just as obvious as the fact that Bones had to keep stalling.

“Jim boy,” He had to say anything to divert the attention, any stupid thing that would take everyone’s attention away from Finch. “Spocko,”

_Spocko’s what did the trick? Spocko’s what’s got everyone’s attention again?_ Well, he wasn’t gonna stop giving them a show if that’s what they came here for. 

“Spocko,” He repeated, biting back the grin that came at the sight of Spock in that pinstripe suit. Maybe he shouldn’t bite back the grin, maybe it would keep the room distracted. At the very least, it would give him a few more seconds to go through with the insane plan he’d just come up with. “How’s this for logic?”

Within seconds, he moved. His feet lashed out a pathetic centimeter, a numbness slapping back into his legs as his hands fought their restraints and the chair wobbled.

In other words?

He hadn't been able to damn a thing. 

(Yes, Leonard McCoy had been so distracted by his adrenaline he’d forgotten he was completely restrained.)

Makris didn’t chuckle. He let out a good long laugh and put a hand out to reassure his goons all was fine and dandy, and they could indeed lower their weapons.

“Loose cannons,” The disgusting man began to mutter, aiming the gun once more, “Gotta love them.”

The trigger was pulled.

And a gun went off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please believe me when I say I look forward to giving you the next update in just a few days!


	5. Chapter 5

Leon Tao gaped in horror at the sight of Finch falling backwards, not wanting to find out what this would force Reese to do. He didn’t need to be a genius to know that a world where Reese didn’t have Finch was a world he didn’t want to live in. 

Already, he was being proven right.

The guy had gone into rampage mode, Makris and his goons falling like the Aryan Brotherhood’s bank accounts. If they weren’t careful, everyone would be decimated in seconds, much like that one time he’d gotten hold of the stock market––  _ yeah, maybe now’s not the best time to reminiscence.  _

“But I cheated,” _Dude,_ ** _shut up!_** He didn’t care if the old guy cheated or whatever. He was still trying to figure out what the hell happened. One minute his eyes were shutting themselves to avoid the bullet waiting for him, the next he was catching the sounds God knows what. A gunshot, metal scraping against the ground, a scream. It was all out of order and he didn’t even know where to start. “I _cheated_ and I still lost.”

The idiot who had shot Finch, surprisingly one of Makris’s goons and not the guy himself, got more than a bullet to the kneecap for his mistake. But before Reese could do more, that Southern nut job was at it again.

“Untie me before he bleeds to death, damn it! I’m a doctor not a hostage!”  _ Seriously?  _ He was a doctor?  Were they lucky or what? Of course, if Reese pummeled everyone to death in a fit of scary rage, they would not be lucky. Like, at all.

Leon watched in fear as something in the vigilante snapped. He hoped it was the good kind of a snap, like when your back finally got into alignment. Because he really didn’t think they could take the other kind.

The guy in question silently whipped back toward the doctor –– really, he seemed more like a quack than anything, but Leon would take anything to keep Mr. Tall Dark and Scary-as-Hell away from rampage mode. In seconds the doctor was freed from his restraints and flying over to Finch, wordlessly fulfilling the end of his agreement.

Great. Yay for taking care of Finch.  Problem was, there was still something wrong with this picture. 

“Guys?” Leon was ecstatic the nut job seemed to know what he was doing, but there remained one problem. “I’m still tied up here.”

“We need to get him out of here,” Seriously, why were they ignoring him? When he was the one who risked his neck betting all that money just for them? What kind of a team was this? “Hold still, Harold, everything’ll be just fine.”

It seemed Finch was slurring something from the ground, almost dead to the world––  _ whoa-ho-ho, totally  _ **_not_ ** _ a good choice of words!  _

"Don't talk now, Harold –– Nyota's gonna kill me as it is."

The wannabe-playboy shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. The last thing they needed was a dead Finch. He’d seen what Reese was like when the guy had been kidnapped. He didn’t even want to imagine what he’d be like if his “friend” died. And, yeah, Leon saw right through that whole friendship-partnership thing. But, honestly, that didn’t bother him. The only thing that did bother him was getting out of here alive. 

Uh, that and saving Finch’s neck, of course.

“Guys?” 

Reese was back to being silent, scanning the perimeter for any more threats. Lou was still freaked out over what’d happened and that nut job had his eyes on Finchy. Who was still bleeding out on the ground, even though he was soon getting scooped up like a doll. 

“Guys, you can’t leave me behind. What if they wake up?”

“Don’t worry, Leon,” Ah, crap. Reese was past the point of caring. “The cops will get here soon enough.”

“You could at least untie me––” Before he could get another word out, Makris’s knife from before was being slid across the floor. He flinched as it approached, relieved to see the handle bumping against his chair and nothing else. Yet another problem persisted: he didn’t know how he was going to get out of this when the knife was all the way on the floor and he was still tied up. “Seriously, dude,”

But the duo was already gone. Which left him only one option:

“How ‘bout it Lou? Wanna help a poor guy out?”

_._

Leonard was being shoved into the back of a sleek black vehicle by the time he realized the first of many mistakes in this plan.

“Where to,  _ doctor _ ?” That may have come off as a purr  but that was a threat, make no mistake. If he didn’t patch up Finch soon, he would be the one in danger.

But how the hell would he be able to use any of his emergency equipment when Reese was always in sight? More importantly, where could they go from here? And even more importantly, how the hell could he get out of this line of fire?

Well, one of those questions was easy enough to work through and lie about: “Actually, I’m from out-of-town. Home's nowhere near.” 

“Nyota’s then.” Except the tense man looked incredibly unhappy about it.

“Actually, she’s left for a bit.” Reese didn’t seem impressed by this, but he did look to be marginally happier. Damn tough crowd that man was, and Leonard thought he knew what a tough crowd looked like –– it came with pointy ears and a _logical_ disposition.

_ (Why thank you, Doctor–– shush!) _

“She left on a Sunday?” Leonard’s thoughts got a little more colorful at that, the officer fully aware he’d been caught out in a lie. But before Reese could question him any further, a groan could be heard from the backseat and all interrogation stopped.

“What's wrong?"

_If you'd just leave me alone for one second, **nothing** would be wrong!_

But before he could whip out a response, Reese was distracted by by the horn of an obnoxious New Yorker –– had they really made it back into the city already? Recognizing the golden opportunity for what it was, Leonard put an emergency hypo to good use. 

"We just need to get him somewhere safe's all." Unfortunately, he didn’t have his full med-kit on him. So wherever they went, the supplies would be limited. But life with two obstinate idiots had taught him it was important to always carry a phaser, a medical tricorder, and an emergency stash of hypos.

(Thank the Lord his jacket’s pockets were deep enough to hide the damn things.)

((Thank the Lord for a second time that Makris’s goons didn’t bother searching said pockets.))

He wouldn’t be able to bring out the tricorder until he sent Reese away on an errand, not daring to risk more than the hiss of a hypo in the vigilante’s presence. But as his medicine worked its magic, Leonard did his best to work with what he had in front of him.

Turned out, it paid to learn the old fashion techniques of medicine.

(Even if the whole thing reeked of the Goddamn Spanish Inquisition.)

“What the?” The car squealed to a halt, his seatbelt digging in as he was thrown forward. He'd barely gotten a good hold on Harold, but they'd managed to keep the injured man from toppling toward the ground. But before he could catch his breath from  _ that  _ experience, he was being dragged out of the car. Except Reese looked to be conflicted about something. “Now what?”

There was no response. And for a third time that night, Leonard found himself wondering how the hell Nyota put up with the secretive behavior.

Then again, seeing as how he was being just as secretive, could he really judge the man?   


“Look, whatever it is, we don’t have time for it.” Just because he hypo’d Finch didn’t mean the man was out of the woods. “Now you can either trust me or you can let him die, your choice.”

That made up Reese’s mind fast enough, that was for sure. In seconds, the doctor found himself carefully helping Finch out of the car. This was also the same couple of seconds the vigilante took to warn that if he ever mentioned one word of this evening, the doctor would live to thoroughly regret it.

‘Course, Mr. Reese’s words were far more cutting. And intimidating. To the point where Leonard actually nodded along in silence, unwilling to provoke the man any further. No sirree, his only interest was in helping Harold up the steps of –– was that a  _ library?  _

(Was he even surprised after everything?)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for patience with this. It’s been a time, to say the least.
> 
> And, to anyone who's also following "Hatchlings", that'll also get an update soon.

John saw right through Leonard McCoy’s act. He knew the man was keeping secrets of his own, secrets not even Nyota Scott was privy to. Thing was, he couldn’t afford to get worked up about it. Not when Harold’s life was in danger.

The bullet had clipped Harold's shoulder, something that required attention but wasn't too severe. But instead of being put to good use, his mission was to find their emergency supplies. Real bandages instead of improvised ones. Things like that. 

Things the Southerner should have had on hand. 

Truth was, if he didn’t need the doctor to keep Finch alive–– it didn’t matter. Because the truth was he _did_ need the doctor. 

(Still needed the doctor, all things considered.)

John kept a tight grip on the supplies as he hurried back to their make-shift emergency room. He’d wanted to bring Finch into a chair as quickly as possible, not wanting to delay treatment. But McCoy had made a case for bringing the recluse to the nearest cot instead. 

_"Seeing as how that was a mighty fall he’d had when he’d gotten_ **_shot_** _, Mr. Reese, I ain’t risking no more injuries."_

The order was irritatingly logical. And it was only the fact that it was Harold who’d gotten injured that had John obey the directions without question. 

“Doctor McCoy?” 

There was no response.

“McCoy?” 

Still no response.

His pace went to double-time in milliseconds, various scenarios coming to mind. Root somehow found them. She’d killed McCoy and abducted Finch. Or, worst still, the doctor had been working for Root all along and John had proven himself too trusting, too idiotic. 

Images of an abandoned cot, of once again being too late, flickered to mind. 

(But those images paled to the ones where the cot was filled with Harold's blood.)

His pace quickened.

The door leading to the cot was in sight, ajar. A gun was already in hand, the soldier ready for any situation. Silently, he approached.

“Harold.” His friend was still out cold, but he was alive. No doctor in sight, only a scrawled note left next to the cot:

**_Nyota called with an emergency, had to step out. But don’t worry. He’s fine._ **

Like hell Harold was fine. He may be alive, but he wasn’t anywhere near _fine._ And how could McCoy make that diagnosis, when he didn’t have any of his equipment?

Whatever. John had treated gunshot wounds before and the doctor had only stepped out. He hadn’t left them. Everything would work out.

“You’re not leaving me, you know that, right?” 

Harold didn’t respond. Being unconscious tended to do that to people.

“‘Always, Mr. Reese’.” John muttered to himself, getting straight to work.

_._

Getting the hell out of Dodge had to be for the best. Because the more Bones thought about the last hour, the more he realized how stupid he’d been to come here in the first place. These were vigilantes he was dealing with, not Starfleet Officers! What the hell had he been thinking?

( _I’m afraid, Doctor, this only serves to illustrate that you were, in fact,_ **_not_ ** _think–– if you say one more word, I swear to God I'll––!_ )

So he’d made sure he had everything. He even took another tricorder reading of Finch to confirm the man’s health. Then he scribbled out a pathetic lie about needing to step out and bolted out of the place. He knew his way well enough to quietly make it to the stairs, sneak through the mountains of discarded books and go through the exit Reese had taken him through and–– and––

How the hell was he supposed to get out of here? 

Did he have to go all the way back to Atlantic City to get back home?

But, that couldn’t be right. Because when he’d last gone through the Guardian, location didn’t make a difference. Time didn’t either, it couldn’t have.

“So how am I supposed to get back, damnit?” 

There was no answer. 

(He really hadn’t thought this through. And he was getting desperate.)

“Take me back to the ship,” Bones pleaded to the sky, praying he’d be taken back before he messed up anything else. 

Nothing.

“Please, for the love of God, take me back to the ship.” 

Still nothing.

Maybe it really was just a matter of getting closer to Atlantic City. But where the hell was Atlantic City from here? He’d been a little busy trying to save a man’s life to pay attention to directions.

Okay, maybe it was like that old Earth classic, _Wizard of Oz._ Maybe he just had to keep asking to be taken back home over and over again.

But that didn’t need to happen the last time. All that happened last time was–– was––

“There is no way in hell anyone’s dying today.” No car accidents, no bleeding out courtesy of being shot, no one was gonna die on his watch.

( _Then, I’m afraid, there’s only one thing for it, Doctor._ )

For once, he was in agreement with the unspoken conclusion, already back in motion.

Heat was slapping common sense back into him the moment he re-entered the library, reminding Leonard he should never _ever_ leave a patient unattended to. He couldn’t abandon a wounded man and run away just because of guilt. In fact, it was damn unlike him to be like this. He honestly felt sick the more he thought the last twenty minutes through.

_(So, what the hell were you thinking, Bones?)_

He honestly didn’t know. All he knew was that the cot was coming back into sight. But it only figured that when he finally walked through the door, he only got a few words for his trouble:

“Some call, if you had to step out.”

“Huh?” Oh, that’s right. He’d forgotten all about his “excuse” from before. “Oh, yeah, sure was. But she’s gonna be all right now.”

Reese said nothing, fixated on Finch. _Just goes to show the priorities of life,_ Leonard thought to himself, unable to do anything but stand in the doorway. He, the only doctor in the situation, had been content with running away instead of doing his job. Yet the guy who shot people in the knees for a living was the one playing nursemaid.

And even though Bones knew all of that, he couldn’t bring himself to move. He just couldn’t budge an inch from the frame of the door, thawed out by the heat but still frozen by his guilt.

“It’s not your fault.”

“What?” 

This was the first time Reese was glancing back toward him, repeating himself: “It’s not your fault.”

“How do you figure?”

“You’ve said it yourself: you’re a doctor. You’re not a soldier, you’re not trained for combat. If anyone’s to blame––“

“Now hold it right there, Mister.” If there was anything that could move Leonard McCoy to action, it was good ol’ fashion anger. “If you even think of blaming yourself when you’re the one who took care of everyone––“

“I was too late.”

“The hell you were! He’s still breathing, ain’t he?”

“Then by that logic,” That word again. Why did everybody love that damn word? “Blame’s _irrelevant_ , I suppose.”

_You think I’m not to blame, do ya? Yeah, right._ Who knows what his interfering changed. Maybe had he kept his nose outta it, none of this would have gone pear-shaped. 

But if Leonard wanted to keep his cover, he’d just have to shut up and accept Reese’s words for what they were.

They went back to silence, but this time Bones wasn’t glued to the door. ‘Course, now he had to fight the instinct to grab his tricorder and look over Finch’s vitals again. Seeing as how they had an audience now, tricorder readings were definitely out of the question. Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t take the man’s pulse or check the bandages.

“Not bad.” Leonard figured Reese would make a good medic. Medicine didn’t seem like the man’s style, but he’d be good at it. Anyway, Bones should've been trying to dismiss him so he could get some sleep. But men like Reese only suffered if they were left to their own devices, especially in cases like these. And since Finch wasn’t gonna be waking up anytime soon, that meant the vigilante needed a mission to go on. “But I’m not seeing any pain meds.”

“I made sure––“

“Not _ibuprofen_.” Thank God for the history classes they forced on us at the Academy. If nothing else, those classes taught him how to pronounce the old Earth drugs. “I mean his meds. Surely a man with his back problems has something stronger?”

“Oh.” All of this was a testament to how off-balance Reese was. Bones knew men like him weren’t ones to forget those kinds of facts.

“Do you know where he hides them?” _Because if Finch doesn’t avoid them like the plague, I’m a Horta in disguise._

“I think so, yeah.” Without another word, Reese was off in search of Finch's meds. Leonard figured he’d take three minutes tops, so he had to make this quick.

He brought his tricorder out only when he knew the man was out of earshot, quickly scanning his patient. Seeing as how he couldn’t keep hiding his equipment, he’d have to figure out how to bring in a real professional if things somehow changed for the worst –– a doctor who was equipped for the era.

(Why did it have to be a gunshot wound? Why couldn’t it be love-sick spores or something? Spores would’ve been a breeze in comparison.)

Luckily, Finch was fine. He was gonna be bedridden and bruised for days to come (because the medicine of the 23rd century could only do so much for a body that’s been _that_ traumatized). But it was a shot that only clipped the shoulder. How it’d knocked the man over in the first place, Bones couldn’t figure it out. All he knew was that keeping the man in a medically-induced coma was the ticket.

Footsteps were coming back, but the tricorder and subsequent hypo were long out of sight. Apparently Harold had picked a good hiding place for his meds, considering it took Reese seven minutes to retrieve them.

“Good.” Bones took hold of the pill bottles, eyeing the names as though he knew all of them. All these dang directions, how’d they keep track of it all? Things were so much simpler in the future, and the sooner he got back there the better. “Now he ain’t waking up anytime soon. But we’re out of the woods, I can tell you that. So you can head on home or wherever it is you go when you're not here.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Fine.” He'd reckoned that would be the man’s response, but figured he'd offer him a choice. “Then get another chair. Because I ain’t leaving either.”

Reese gave something akin to a grunt, silently leaving the room to follow the command. 

And whipping out the tricorder one last time, just to be safe, “At least _someone_ follows orders.”

* * *

Somewhere in the distance, Lionel Fusco suddenly realized the evening had been quiet. _Too_ quiet. Lee needed a little help with homework, they’d even gotten a game in. Not that he cared for the Blackhawks, but it was something.

All in all, he had one mantra for tonight: _Whatever the hell those two idiots are up to tonight, they better keep on leaving me the hell alone._

This was, of course, the moment wherein the detective received a call from Leon Tao of all people. Tao was raving about some Southern nut job and a whacked up casino, but made no mention of their “mutual friends”. Which meant that Fusco was absolutely off the hook.

“Who was that, dad?”

“Spam call.” _And ain’t that the truth._


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for your continued patience and interest. It’s been a time, and I really, really hope you enjoy today’s update.
> 
> And for those who are curious about "Hatchlings", that will be getting an update sometime in the next couple of days :)
> 
> In any case, enjoy!

John didn’t trust McCoy any more than he trusted Leon. But even he could admit the doctor seemed to be more harmless than not.

“Well,” The Southerner had proclaimed about an hour after they began keeping vigil, “I don’t know about you, but I need to stretch my legs, maybe get some dang sleep for once.” 

John remained silent.

“If something happens, wake me.”

He kept quiet, ignoring McCoy’s scoff of disbelief. They weren’t going to be friends, even if that’s how the doctor wanted to treat him. 

Eventually the man left the room, muttering something about idiotic vigilantes. John ignored him, keeping his focus on Harold. He noticed the sounds of footsteps fading out, footsteps that should’ve been heading toward the only other cot in the place. But they weren’t heading there, they were taking a tour of the shelves.

There was an urge to follow the doctor, to find out more about him. But a groan from Harold stopped that plan in its tracks.

  
“Finch?”

False alarm. The recluse was still out of it. 

John sighed, thinking about all that. Finch was probably okay, but the only way to know for sure would be monitor his vitals with equipment. But the doctor’s gear was states away, judging from the accent. So unless he wanted to bring Dr. Tillman or Dr. Enright into this, he’d have to settle for McCoy.

(Why did he to be so damn stupid? How could he have let Harold get shot?)

Closing his eyes, the man reflected on his actions of the last twenty-four hours. Finch had been in the field plenty of times before tonight, though they did try to curb that habit after Root. But he was experienced. He knew the risks, he’d even learned a little self-defense. Those lessons that would be starting up again the moment he recovered, but he’d learned enough to get himself out of most scrapes. 

(But, seriously. There was no way in hell this was gonna happen again, not on his watch.)

Another groan brought John’s awareness back, eyes opening to take sight of the only that mattered. 

“Mr. Reese?” Relief flooded him, his body relaxing at the sight of a haphazard Harold Finch coming back to life. “I––”

“Don’t _ever_ do that again.”

“Which,” His voice was almost as raspy as John’s, a sure sign he needed water. “Which part?”

A water bottle was well in hand by the time he reached his partner, “Any of it.”

His chuckle was even raspier, Finch wincing as he gulped down the offered drink. “If it makes a difference, Mr. Reese, I had no intention of getting shot.”

_And I have no intention of letting you into the field again._ But he couldn’t say that. Not when he knew how the man would react. He didn’t need Finch getting it in his head that there was a need to prove how capable he was in the field.

Instead of mentioning any of this, “You rarely do.”

It was true. People didn’t expect to get shot. It was a possibility, of course it was. But if you got caught up in that, you were liable to get yourself killed. 

“Yes, well,” The recluse made to move, but that was proving too much for him. 

“Easy there,” John was not about to have him collapse, not when Harold was only now waking up. “Don’t try to move yet.”

“Easy for you to say,” It was so unlike the man to grumble like that, so different that he had to smile. “You’re not the one incapacitated.”

“Lose some of your patience, Finch?” The man scoffed at the quip, knowing full well what conversation John was referencing. 

“That was an entirely different circumstance, Mr. Reese.” He really should be laying back down. But so long as he didn’t keep on trying to move, Finch would be fine. At least, for the moment. “The CIA was hunting you down. Makris, on the other hand, won’t be coming after me.”

(Who was John kidding? He was gonna move Harold back in a second, when the timing was right.)

“Don’t be so sure, Finch.” He warned, watching the man become agitated. And when he tried to defend his point, an action that resulted in more than just a wince, John was there to catch him. “C’mon, Harold, work with me here.”

“Well,” Did Finch’s voice sound… flushed? “I suppose I can do that.”

John nodded, relieved. And carefully holding onto Harold’s back –– he’d studied the man long enough to know how to move him without too much pain –– he slowly lowered his friend back.

“Don’t think this means you can keep me out of the field you know,” He might’ve believed Finch, if the man wasn’t on the verge of passing out. He really wasn’t in good shape if that much exertion winded him. “But I suppose I can let you help for now.”

Yeah, he wasn’t back to normal. His words would have been less repetitive, more eloquent. But there wasn’t time to respond, not when Harold’s eyes were already closing. Still, John kept a hold on him, needing the confirmation that he was okay.

And when he was positive the recluse had only passed out, when he confirmed nothing else had gone wrong, “Thank you.”

John didn’t know why he was saying thanks. Maybe it was for trusting him. Maybe it was just for letting him help. All he knew was that he needed to. 

He stared down at his friend, studying every detail. He knew he wouldn’t be stopping Finch from getting back to work, but this had all been too close for comfort. Something would have to change if they wanted to keep going.

Footsteps were coming back. John would have to let go of Harold if he didn’t want to gain the doctor’s curiosity. He would have to return back to his chair, ignore the last few minutes, and––

“Well, that’s an improvement.” 

Eyes opened to the sight of the doctor bending over him, blue eyes studying him fiercely.

“Glad to see you got some sleep, Mr. Reese.”

John turned back to Finch, his relief plummeting. His friend was still out of it, not moving an inch.

( _So what the hell was that dream about?_ )

“Before you ask, he’s fine.” McCoy continued on, oblivious. “I checked his vitals just a minute ago. I’d want my equipment to be sure, but we both know that ain’t happening anytime soon. Anyway, he’ll be out of it for a little while longer, but he’s gonna be just fine.”

“Good.” 

“Now, you gonna tell him how you feel or what?” _Huh?_ “Because the way I see it, you’re not gonna last if you keep quiet.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really? _That’s_ what you’ve decided to go with?” McCoy barked out a laugh, rolling his eyes, “I’ve seen the signs. Now you can keep denying it and kill yourself in the process,” That sounded acceptable. “Or you can get the damn thing over with and find out the truth.” No. He couldn’t do that. “Because, surprise, surprise, pretty sure he feels the same.”

“You’re wrong, doctor.” Grace was the only person Harold cared for like that. Not him. 

“Really? You mean to tell me every brain in an operation goes into the field?”

“He needed to this time. Makris kept everything too close to the vest.”  
  


“You sure about that? Pretty sure a man like Finch can do everything from his nest. That is what all this is, isn’t it? Just one huge nest?”

John had doubted that Harold really _needed_ to be in the field, but he wasn’t about to admit that. “Look, whatever you think you know,”

“And what about that bomb from before, hmm? Not just anyone sticks around for stuff like that.” John stilled, not wanting to think about that. The room got hotter when he thought of things like that. Uncomfortable, too. “Believe me, I should know.”

“And why’s that?”

“No, Mr. Reese.” The doctor’s tone had cooled, “You don’t get to find out about that.”

John eyed McCoy, considering all his options. He could press the guy for more information at the risk of incensing him. He could leave it alone for now and find out more later. He could also––

_Wait a minute._ “How did you know about the bomb?” 

“Mr. Reese,” The doctor began to explain, but John couldn’t focus.The bomb came long after Nyota. And seeing as how he hadn’t said a damn thing about it, there was no way McCoy could have known. 

“No,” John took another step forward, wary. Was it possible the doctor was really working for Root? Could she have found out about everything? What the hell was going on here?

“Mr. Reese,” McCoy barreled on, “It’s time to wake up and face the truth. Not only do you like him, he likes y––”

The image flashed. The dream ended. He didn’t shudder or gasp out, too well-trained for that. But he opened his eyes immediately, taking note of Harold’s form sprawled out on the cot, unconscious. He felt a blanket wrapped around his shoulder and heard–– heard the sounds of a doctor soundly knocked out. 

So much for finding a cot to sleep on. McCoy had decided to take it upon himself to keep watch in the room, having snuck in while John was asleep. And, judging from the sounds, the doctor was a sleeptalker. Yeah, the guy was mumbling something about a captain and a ––

Okay. So, he’d apparently heard it right the first time.

“Damn hobgoblin,” McCoy mumbled again, shaking his head a little. “With your damn logic.”

John decided he didn’t want to know.

As it was, he found himself wishing this was all a dream like the last two. 

* * *

There came a time when both men were awake. When they were both awake and starving like hell. And since he knew better to force Reese to leave Finch alone, that meant Leonard McCoy had the _honor_ of learning how to make Instant Ramen. Something he never wanted to learn and never ever wanted to eat _ever_ again. Just how did these idiots survive?

It got better. Because the vigilante was in the mood to interrogate and there was now no one to stop him. 

(Bones could only step out to look at the bookshelves once. Which meant he’d run out of time.)

“So, what brought you to Atlantic City?” Subtle. Very subtle. _Not._

“I needed a change in pace.” He could give vague answers, too, you know!

“And the casino?”

“Pure luck.” Sure as hell wouldn’t have been his first choice, but the Guardian had plopped him there for a reason.

Reese left him alone for a minute, turning back to his “associate”. That suited Leonard just fine, the doctor well aware he’d only gotten a reprieve.

“What’s the book about?”

Ah. The book. The book he’d gone out of his way to find when he caught sight of the classics. The book he’d been clutching like hell ever since he found it.

Feigning innocence, “‘The book’?” 

Reese didn’t fall for it, staring directly at the object in question.

“Oh, that!” Leonard chuckled, flipping a few pages from nerves. “Yeah, that. Just something a friend kept going on about.”

“Scott?” 

Bones blinked at this, unsure of how the Head Engineer of the _Enterprise_ would have come up in conversation. “Scotty isn’t the kind to read this. Technical journals, more like.”

“‘Scotty’?” Reese repeated, giving the doctor a bad feeling. “That a nickname or something? She never mentioned it.”

That was when Leonard remembered what Nyota had been calling herself while she was here, “Something like that. Anyway, like I said: this isn’t Nyota’s cup of tea.”

The man nodded, “Then who’s ‘cup of tea’ is it?”

“A friend.” He sure as hell wasn’t about to bring Jim into this.

“‘A friend’.”

“Yeah.” Reese was really good at that repeating act, Leonard would have to give him that. But, if there was one thing _he_ was good at, it was using situations like this to his advantage. “Much like your Finch.”

That got the man to shut up for a minute, the smallest hints of a blush showing. The whole expression was much more subtle than this interrogation but, he said it before and he’d say it again: he’d been working alongside subtle for _years._

“So he’s the brains of your operation?”

( _Doctor, I do believe that exercising caution in this would be of great import–– I know, Spock, I ain’t an idiot._ Though he would have to get his head checked, seeing as how he couldn’t keep their voices out of his head.)

“Well, it ain’t an operation, exactly,” No use in smashing the Prime Directive to bits. Might as well _try_ to keep up pretenses. “And he’s definitely not the brains.”

( _Why, Bones, you wound me–– ah, get over yourself.)_

“Really? So, who is the brains?”

Leonard snorted. _A hobgoblin if ever there was one,_ came to mind. But seeing as how he didn’t want to give Reese any more ideas, “A pain in the ass –– one who probably would’ve risked his neck in the name of logic tonight.”

The vigilante nodded, looking to be familiar with the concept.

“So, the ‘hobgoblin’ then.” _Exactly! Wait––_ Leonard was past vehemently nodding by the time he realized his mistake. “Which would make your _friend_ the captain.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He gave another mental curse, well aware of the trap he was continuing to stupidly bound into. “But I’ll have you know they’re _both_ my friends. Anyway, ain’t it about time we checked in on Finch?”

It was too late. Reese was looming over him, radiating all sorts of things Bones didn’t like. There might not be a weapon in sight, but men like Reese didn’t need one.

“Finch’ll be fine, Dr. McCoy.” He didn’t like how his title sounded. He preferred for Reese to keep calling him McCoy. “You should be more concerned about yourself.”

_Believe me, I am._ “Look, even if there was a captain and a ship –– which I ain’t saying’s true, I’m only supposing here –– you don’t want to get involved.”

“Really?” His voice had lowered to a purr, taking another step. It reminded Bones of another time where he’d been trapped. A time the world had been turned inside out and _everything_ was damn wrong.

“No.” Leonard took a step back, bile rising within him. Mr. Reese wouldn’t dare to invade his mind –– he couldn’t even do it if he wanted to. “No, you don’t.”

“Doctor,” It was damn eerie, the resemblance. He took another step back, flinching at the sight. His heart wasn’t racing, it was screaming at him to run. Memory was rushing through his blood and terror was overtaking him, his breathing erratic as hell. All he could see was slanted eyebrows, a goatee that made his stomach turn, piercing brown eyes that haunted him ever since. 

He couldn’t go through that again, he would _never_ go back to that again. 

“Leave me alone, damnit!” Anger prickled at his eyes, his body unwilling convulsing at the memory. Everything he’d forced himself to keep from doing, everything thought he’d shoved deep down was springing back to life and then some. 

“Mr. Reese?” Bones blinked. The image convulsed, the world beginning to tilt and flicker. He wasn’t in that hellhole, he was in this hellhole. Stuck in the 21st century, not trapped in that God awful nightmare.

And Finch was awake. The poor man’d probably been woken up by the shout, trying to sit up but flinching from the pain.

“Harold,” Reese was already back by his side, much to Leonard’s relief. It meant an end to the interrogation, a chance to regain his bearings. “Don’t move.”

Leonard took a shuddering breath, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was gonna be enough, not until he got back to the ship. 

“Doctor McCoy?” 

“‘S all right, Mr. Finch.” Not that the man believed him. Bones knew no one believed him. Didn’t keep him from marching on over, doing his best to focus on his patient and do his job. “How do you feel?”

Said patient gave a weak stare, no doubt trying to discern what the hell was running through his mind. Well, he had no intention of handing out any more information, his hand going to his pocket –– that is, until he realized he couldn’t bring out a hypo in Reese’s present. The man was suspicious enough as is.

“Peachy.” Harold eventually replied, prompting a chuckle from the doctor and a weird sort of smile-thing from Reese. “So, that’s what it’s like to get shot.”

“Yeah. Never do it again.” Bones was being not-so-subtly shoved out of the way, “Ever.”

“Mr. Reese, I––” But he was already doing too much, the pain clear as day.

“Now, let that be a lesson to you: no speaking! No movement at all, not if you want to be out of this bed by the end of the week!” With a back like that, Finch should be grateful he wasn’t gonna be confined for the next month. “And if you even think of going back into the field anytime soon, you’ll have another thing coming!”

“Doctor––” Finch was smart enough not to question his orders. Didn’t stop him from talking. “But what about Lou?” Oh, damn. They’d forgotten all about Lou and _Mr. Bao_. “Are they all right?”

“Of course they’re fine!” Finch sighed in relief, missing Leonard’s exchange with Reese. They’d undoubtedly have to check in on both men, now that the doctor had lied to Finch. “Now, are you gonna stay still or is John gonna have to pin you to the bed?”

The recluse shut up all at once, a definite blush appearing. He sank into the cot, not even pitching a fit over being told what to do. Jeeze, he’d have to try this one on Jim or Spock the next time they got themselves in a scrape. Worked better than a charm.

“That’s more like it.” Leonard nodded in approval, ignoring John’s own reaction to the previous statement. “Now, I tried out that other cot earlier. If yours is anything like it you’ll need some support to keep that back of yours in shape. So, y’all got enough money for a,” _Oh, what’s the word? That’s right._ “Mattress topper? Because you’re gonna need it.”

“I believe so,” Somehow Bones got the sense that there was a running joke about money here. Either way, he didn’t care. He just wanted his patient to be in the best shape possible.

“Great. Then John here can go out and grab one,” _And get in contact with “Mr. Bao” and Lou while he’s at it._ “While I’m gonna stay here and keep an eye on you.”

Fortunately, Reese got the message. He wasn’t happy about playing errand boy, but he got the message: Bones wouldn’t know how to get in contact with the gentlemen in question. So if they were going to find out what happened to the two, it would be on Reese to get the answers.

“In that case,” Harold was beginning to rise up again, but Leonard and Reese were there to keep him still. He kept trying to speak, unfortunately unwilling to compromise on this, “Mr. Reese, if you could confirm whether or not we’ve received any _calls_ today,”

“No.”

“I’m sorry?”

“No, Finch. You shouldn’t even be awake.” Reese sent Leonard a meaningful look, informing the doctor that their previous discussion was by no means over. “We’re not getting called in today.”

“But––”

“Doctor’s orders, right, McCoy?”

“Yes, siree.” He liked being on the same side as Reese. Made for a nice change. “No calls of any kind today, unless they’re a house-call from yours truly.”

“But––”

“No, Harold.” John leaned in a little, his eyes going back to his supposed friend. “Not today.”

Finch looked ready to kick up another fight, Leonard poised to intervene. But something changed within the man, and he dropped the matter.

“If you insist.” 

“We do.” “It really is for the best.”

“I’m sure.” At least Finch didn’t have a higher rank than them. He didn’t have a rank at all, and for that Bones was grateful. Made all this so much easier.

Now he just needed to figure out how the hell he was getting back. Because he was getting back, make no mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, a dream-within-a-dream-within-a-dream. Gotta love them.
> 
> In all seriousness, I sincerely hope you enjoyed that. As you may have guessed, we're in the final stages of this little story. 
> 
> Which, speaking of stories and the likes, I took someone's advice and got a tumblr for fanfiction (https://there-are-clearwaters-here.tumblr.com). I'm trying out a few things with it, but I've not a clue in regards to what I should do. So, if you have any suggestions or anything, I'm all ears :)
> 
> In any case, I hope you are well, that you enjoyed this update, and that you have a lovely day! 'Till next time!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the end begins! Thank you all so very much for being a part of the ride!
> 
> Warning: there’ll be some mention of PTSD as well as a smattering of colorful language. Which has been the theme for the story, but still. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The mattress topper, a real one with plenty of thickness to it, was unrolled and spread out on the other cot. It needed time to breathe, just like he told Finch. ‘Course, his patient was unconscious at the time from overworking himself –– because, yes, Finch trying to speak up for five minutes did him in –– but it was the thought that counted.

“Now, if ya’ll just ‘scuse me a moment.” The recluse may be knocked out, but manners were manners. “I’ve just gotta step out for a second.”

Reese was nowhere in sight and so was his German Shepherd Belgian Malinois thing. The dog had come back with the vigilante, no explanation given as to where it’d been or why it was even here in the first place. 

(The only good thing that came out of it was, unlike Reese, Bear actually liked him.)

Anyway, their absences made it easier to step out of the library, find an isolated side-street and shout at the skies for the third time. Just what did he have to do to get out of this damn place? Click his heels together and proclaim there’s no place like the  _ Enterprise _ ? Because if that’s what it took, that’s what he’d be doing. 

“So, this is what you do when you step out?”

_ Ah, hell.  _ Leonard whipped around, a more appropriate curse coming to mind. But he didn’t say a thing as Reese approached, knowing better than to risk it.

“Were you following me?” It was the only thing that makes sense. And seeing as how the dog wasn’t anywhere near, he could assume this was one of those “clandestine” operations.

“I’m not letting an unknown get too close to Finch.” Reese bluntly informed him, business-like. As though cornering him was a normal part of the job. Though, knowing his line of work, it probably was. “You haven’t explained your story.”

“Well, I’m afraid that you’re not getting another word out of me––” The glare he got for that shut Leonard up. “Look, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. Fact is, I’d be more than happy to just be on my merry way.”

“So why don’t you?”

_ Hell if I know. Ask the damn Guardian.  _ “It’s complicated.”

Reese looked unimpressed. Bones remained silent.

“If you don’t want to get anyone in trouble, why’d you get involved?”

That was easy enough to answer, “Because I’m a doctor, I save lives –– just how many times do I have to say that for people to believe?”

The vigilante took a step forward. Leonard flinched.

“There it is again.” Reese murmured, taking another step. He was fully aware of his ability to intimidate, the bastard. 

“Don’t do that!” That horrible nightmare was old news –– why did it continue to terrorize him after all this time? And why the hell did Reese remind him of it when he got like this?

“Don’t worry, McCoy. I’m not getting any closer.” Leonard refused to flinch or tremble at the possibilities, glaring back at the vigilante. First, Reese follows him. Then, he tries to scare him. Did he want his boyfriend to get better or not? Does the whole  _ qualified medic _ part mean nothing? “Unless, of course, you refuse to cooperate.”

_ Typical.  _ “Oh, I see. You want the truth, do you?”

“What do you think?”

Leonard harrumphed. Well, at this rate, he was never getting back home. ‘Sides, who the hell was Reese gonna tell? Operations like these didn’t tend to be government-sanctioned, they probably had as much to lose as he did if anyone found out. 

“Don’t blame me when you call me crazy.” Thankfully, his hands were still buried in his pockets. So if Reese tried anything, he could use his last hypo to knock the man out and escape. He’d still have to figure out how to get away from a drugged-up vigilante –– hypos didn’t always immediately kick in. And his plan wasn’t guaranteeing a return to the ship. But it would give him a start. “You’re the one who wanted to know.”

“Doctor.” Ah, yes. Even when he was ripping the Prime Directive to shreds, he wasn’t allowed to stall. 

The hell with it. “I’m a medical officer of the  _ U.S.S. Enterprise _ . Happy?” There were plenty of ships around these days, he could pass himself as just another sailor. He just had to pray Reese didn’t know a thing about ships or registrations or any of that. He also had to pray that Reese wouldn’t be asking for more information. Like why he wasn’t wearing a uniform. Or why he hadn’t mentioned shore leave before.

“You’re not lying.”

“That’s right.”

“So how does Scott figure into this?” So much for quitting it with the interrogation.

_ Why aren’t you calling him Scotty–– oh, that’s right. _ “She’s a fellow officer.”

Reese nodded. Then he took another step.

“Now wait–– wait a minute! I answered your damn questions, I thought we were done with that.”

“That’s not the whole story.” 

“Look, I’m not expecting to know every detail about y’all. Can’t it be the same for me? Besides, I’ve said enough as is. Pretty sure Finch needs us.”

“Harold will be fine. Like I said before: I’m done with unknowns.” Without moving an inch, Reese seemed to be looming even more now. “So, why’d you get involved?”

How to tell the truth without giving it all away? “Look, I was concerned for Lou when I first saw him and then I heard the whole story. How could I not get involved after that?”

“Why were you at the casino in the first place?”

“Pure coincidence.” Leonard admitted, easing up a little. “Believe me when I say I wasn’t expecting to bump into y’all there.”

“And Scott wasn’t with you because?”

“Just because we’re friends doesn’t mean we’re glued to the hip.”  _ And ain’t that the truth _ . He liked Nyota, but he tended to spend his time with Jim and Spock.

“And yelling at the sky?”

Leonard froze. 

“Don’t tell me y’all don’t do that out here. Back home, we used to do that all the time. In fact––"

“McCoy. Don’t lie now.”

“If you must know,” He took a breath, sparing a glance at the clouds. Now would be a pretty good time to be vanishing into thin air, even if it’d leave behind a mystery. “I’ve been waiting on someone for a little while now but they’re taking their sweet time. So I was taking my anger out on the skies. And that’s  _ all  _ there is to it.”

“So who’s the ‘Guardian’?"

_ Oh. You heard that, did you? _ The answer was so obvious Bones didn’t feel like asking. He sarcastically chuckled, more than irritated with himself. He knew an answer would be necessary, but he was all for stalling and taking his sweet time. Yes siree, he didn’t need to look into the ice that was Reese’s eyes for at least another thirty seconds.

  
“McCoy,” 

“Would you believe me if I told you it was an alien portal thing?” Bones meant to pass it off as a joke, as a way of stalling for time. 

Reese wasn’t laughing. 

“That’s not possible.”

_ Oh, God.  _ “Mr. Reese, I was just joking with you! The Guardian is–– well,”

The man was taking another step forward, this time leaving absolutely no room for escape, “Who are you?"

His hypo was useless here, everything was useless with the man so close. And Reese was glaring right at him, a hand raising just like––

“I’m Chief Medical Officer Leonard H. McCoy of the  _ U.S.S. Enterprise _ , NCC-1701.” The information was rattled off before he had a chance to think anything through. “Our mission is one of peace. We explore the world, we try to find new life-forms, and don’t you _ dare _ come any closer!”

“Where are you from?” He was on the streets of New York, not back in that sick joke of a Sick Bay.

“Georgia, where else?” Mr. Reese was human. He couldn’t do any of that mental mumbo-jumbo, it just wasn’t possible.

“Where are you from?” He was not about to force himself into Leonard’s thoughts. No one would ever be doing that again, not if he could help it.

“I already told you!” The man couldn’t violate him like that, it wasn’t possible. Just because his heart was back to screaming at him to run and his breath was faster than Warp 7 didn’t mean––

“ _ What year _ are you from?” The hand rose again and Bones broke.

“The 23rd century, damn it! And don’t even think of doing a mind-meld, you hobgo––“ The world morphed into a muddled blur, his body shaking. His body couldn’t stop trembling, repeatedly smacking against brick, terrified. 

(The good news? There was no brick in Sick Bay. In other words? He could finally breathe.)

One breath became a pathetic two. Blurs eased into something else. Ice-cold eyes had shifted into something. It wasn’t kinder, it wasn’t sympathetic, but it was something.

“Was that so difficult?”

Leonard couldn’t respond, he’d gone back under, being unable to breathe. It was all too familiar, all too much for him. He could collapse from it all, so damn out of it.

“Doctor McCoy?”

Pain jolted through him, panic throttling any semblance of calm. Was the room threatening to spin or was it just him? Could it even be considered a room if they were outside?  _ How about that, ya think anyone’s ever stopped to ask themselves–– _

“Pretty sure your captain and your hobgoblin still need you, Doctor.”

Why the hell did  _ that _ of all things reach him?

“You’re damn straight they do.” He still couldn’t move. He was barely able to gasp out air and take it back in, and now the man was expecting him to act as though nothing had happened? 

“C’mon,” Somehow, Reese had managed to put a hand on him. The warmth shocked him more than Spock regaining his sight, but Bones remained helpless. He couldn't register much else until they were back in the library and even then he was still drowning in the shock.

“Sorry about before.” Leonard gaped at the man, unsure as to whether or not he’d heard him correctly.  _ Now  _ was the time he decided to apologize? And, frankly, an apology felt pretty weak for everything that’d happened in the last ten minutes. “But it was necessary."

“So, what the hell happened to him?” Because there had to be a reason Reese was acting this paranoid, why he went to such lengths to interrogate the doctor. And it certainly wasn’t because he was concerned about his own safety. It had to be something involving Finch.

Bones thought he wasn’t gonna get an answer out of the man. That, somehow, enduring a panic attack wasn’t enough to warrant a response. So when Reese looked to be on the verge of speaking, the doctor couldn’t help but gape, if only a little.

“I almost lost him once.” They were nearing the stairs. Too far for Finch to hear, but too close for Reese to give real details. “And I promised myself I would never do that again.”

_ Of all the––  _ “You know how you can really make sure you don’t lose him?” Leonard watched the vigilante look his way, too caught up in the adrenaline to care what happened next. “Tell him the truth.”

“‘The truth’?”

“About how you feel, damnit!” He’d just re-lived a traumatic experience, he wasn’t in the mood to play coy. “And if you give me any of that ‘we’re just friends’ bull, I'll have to phaser you into the next century!”

It felt good to speak this openly again, to know he didn’t have to keep censoring himself every step of the way. He didn’t know why Reese hadn’t called him crazy, why he wasn’t being tossed into a cage with the key thrown away, but his uncertainty was why he still had his hands on his hypo.

Well, that and a little thing called  _ trauma.  _ As well as the need to clutch to familiar things like they were lifelines.

“Lou said something similar.”  _ Was that so difficult–– huh?  _ “I saw him today, him and Leon.”

Oh, yeah. Bones had completely forgotten about those two. Still, common decency demanded he make sure they were in good shape, “They make it out okay?”

And speaking of good shape, why did it take so much to make it up seven steps? They weren’t even at the top of the staircase and the world was back to muddled blurs and wheezy breaths. At least he could catch sight of the dog at the top of the steps, that had to count for something.

“They’re fine.” 

“Good.” The last thing they needed was another medical emergency. Then they’d really have to call in a professional and that’d just get messy. “So, what’d Lou say?”

“Something along those lines.”  _ We’re back to square one, are we?  _ Well, so long as the message got through a certain someone’s thick skull, he had no real complaints about the cryptic answers. “What was that, McCoy?”

“Nothing.” He really would have to keep his mouth shut. Especially considering Reese still had a hand on him, the man helping him through every step of the journey. 

And speaking of the journey, “Wait, this ain’t the right room! Finch’s not in here.”

“You’re right: he’s not.”  _ Then why are we here? _ “The other cot’s in here.  _ Your _ cot.”

“But I can’t stop now!” They were still moving in the direction of that cot, Reese ignoring all of his protests, “Besides, that topper needs to air out for a few more hours.”

“You’re no use to Finch right now.” Somehow the man was managing an impossible feat: take the topper off and simultaneously deposit Bones onto the bed. 

“Mr. Reese––” But the moment his body hit the cushion, the fight left him. It was quick as a hypo and it was without a shred of doubt absolutely unfair but that’s how it was.

“Don’t worry, Leonard,” That sounded more foreboding than the interrogation and his body couldn’t help but feel heavy with exhaustion, threatening to pass out. “The way I see it, your pockets make more sense. And now that I know the truth, you can use all of your  _ tools _ to your advantage.”

  
The  _ or else  _ part of his little speech went unspoken. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who want to know just what happens next, have no fear: I will be posting the final chapter of this in just a few minutes!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Distinguished readers, this is it! As always, it's been a pleasure.
> 
> Enjoy!

He was still alive and kicking. 

Well, at the very least, he was alive. As for kicking, it felt like he’d been the one to get kicked. But he hadn’t been thrown into some jail and the room hadn’t transformed into some sort of insane asylum. And seeing how it would’ve been child’s play for someone like Reese to cart him off, he could only assume the man believed his story.

“Well, if that’s the case,” Leonard grumbled to himself, pushing his tired body off the cot, “Might as well go check in my patient.”

Surprise, surprise: Finch wasn’t alone.

“Good morning, Leonard.” He didn’t like hearing his name like that. And he really didn’t like the fact that he seemed to have slept through another day, considering it had been the afternoon last time he checked,

“Morning,” Bones muttered in response, pleased to see Finch was currently unconscious. It meant that he could take out his tricorder in relative peace––

_ So much for that!  _ “Mr. Reese, what are you doing?”

Reese’s hand had shot out, stopping the doctor before he could do a thing. “Can’t be too careful, McCoy.”

Weren’t they supposed to be trusting each other now? He’d only taken his tricorder out for a reading. And for Pete's sake, didn't he already have the man’s permission?

“Mr. Reese,” The vigilante’s grasp was not loosening, but it had nothing on a Vulcan gripping you with their mind. “John, I ain’t gonna harm him. I’m a doctor, remember?”

“So you say.” With a glance at the medical device, Reese went back to his routine of suspiciously glaring at the doctor, refusing to let up. “What’s that?”

“It’s my tricorder. It allows me to see what’s going on with him.”

The grip loosened, prompting a sigh of relief.  _ It’s about time,  _ the doctor thought to himself, holding onto his tools with more than a hint of wariness. Finch was fine –– it was Reese he was worried about.

“What does it say?”

“Well, for starters, he’s got a back that's got more bruises than a Klingon's, not to mention some soft tissue damage,” It said much more than that, of course, but he wouldn’t be giving Finch's medical history away, not today. “But it also says that he’s stable and he’ll live. All of which we already knew, but it’s nice to double-check.” 

“Good.”

“Agreed.” He never liked to take chances with gunshot wounds or any such injury. And now that Finch’s health was confirmed for the millionth time, he could bring Reese out into the hallway for his own interrogation. “Now, what did Lou say?”

“I'd rather know what brought you to the 21st century.”

“Oh, stop dodging the question!” He pocketed the tricorder, scowling. The door leading to Finch was shut, the man himself unconscious. Now was as good a time as any to hear the truth. “If Lou said something, chances are there was a good reason for it.”

“He doesn’t know the whole story.”

“Nobody can ever know the ‘whole story’!” Bones sharply shook his head, vexed. “But I’ll tell you what  _ I  _ know: I know Finch’s type and I know yours. You’re both the self-sacrificing kind, only he does it through logic and you go for heroics. I also know you’re gonna be hellbent on keeping him safe from it all, but he’ll never go for that. You won’t be able to keep him away from the action and you certainly won’t be able to keep him safe. But you know how you can keep him _alive_? By telling him the truth and helping him see how important he is to you!”

“You’re an expert in the truth, are you?” Sarcasm was to be expected, considering all the half-truths he'd told. And, of course, when it came to this,  Bones couldn’t lie and pretend to have proof when he’s only been a coward in his own life. 

But he also couldn’t keep from speaking up.

“I know that my only real regret is not saying anything. I know that every hour I spend down here is another hour spent in the wrong. That it’s better to speak your piece and be done with it than watch them get struck down again and again, ignorant of the truth.”

Reese remained motionless, giving none of his thoughts away.

“It wouldn’t work.”

“And why’s that?” 

“He’s in love with someone else.” 

That brought out another scowl, “Oh, really? And who is this someone else?”

“His fiancée. She thinks he’s dead.”  _ Just what goes on around here? _

“And just how long has she thought that?”

“A while.” From the sound of it, 'a while' meant at least a few years.

_ Are you kidding me––  _ “If it’s been ‘a while’ and he really loves her, why hasn’t he said anything?”

“It wouldn’t work.”

“Is that your excuse for everything? Don’t answer that!” And he thought life on a Starship was complicated. Damn foolish vigilantes with their damn idiotic love lives. “So, are you trying to tell me he can’t love anyone else?”

“She’s the person who connects him to the world. I’m just his employee.”

“‘Connects him to the world’? ‘Just an employee’?” This was getting beyond ridiculous. “Tell me something, John: do you think he’d be willing to go through  _ multiple panic attacks  _ if she was the only one who connected him to the world?”

“What?”

“Nyota told me all about that case with that Sofia girl. She was there each and every time Harold couldn’t keep going, every time he froze up and panicked. And do you know what she said?” Leonard continued on, not waiting for an answer. “She said the more she thought about it, the more it all became plain as day,”

Reese’s continued silence only encouraged the doctor, “Finch wanted to do his job, that much was obvious. He cared for Sofia and everyone else, she could see that, too. But he only came to life when  _ you _ were around. Even when he was at his lowest moments, even when he wanted to give up and quit, he didn’t. Because it was _you_ that kept him going. You, Mr. Reese. _Not_ the job.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Really? Then let me ask you one more thing, John,” He took another breath, his own memories steadying him. If these two had half the adventures they’d gone through on the  _ Enterprise _ , then he knew the answer to this question. “Would an employer be willing to put his life on the line time and time again for just an employee? Would someone like Finch, someone who clearly enjoys working from behind-the-scenes, be willing to risk being in the field and getting shot for  _ just _ an employee?

“You can tell yourself whatever you like. But at the end of the day, actions will always speak louder than words. And regret will _always_ hurt worse than the truth, make no mistake.” He straightened himself up, taking some pride in Reese’s obvious shock. It wasn’t every day a man like Reese was shocked into silence. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a book to read and a patient to keep watch over. You can keep on brooding and letting your feelings fester, but that’s on you.”

Without further ado, he was back to being on the clock. And, no, Reese hadn't tagged along. The man had stayed where he was, doing whatever it was he’d decided to do. Perhaps that was for the best, but Leonard couldn’t help thinking he was making a God awful mistake.

“John?” It seemed Harold was awake. And if that hopeful tone didn’t give all his feelings away, the doctor didn’t know what would.

“Just me, Mr. Finch.” He bit back a knowing smirk, watching the recluse’s face reveal disappointment. Clearly the man was still out of it if he was this easy to read. “How are you feeling?”

“Well enough to get back to work––”

“I’m gonna stop you right there.” He wouldn’t whip out the hypo, not unless he had to. But he wasn’t about to let the man try to skip the recovery process. 

“Doctor McCoy, I really think––”

“That you should be resting? I quite agree!” If only Reese were here. Then Harold would be shutting up and following his orders to the letter. 

_ What am I, a doctor or a matchmaker? _

* * *

It wasn’t the twenty-third century that got to John. Somehow, after everything they’d gone through, time travel didn’t seem like that big of a deal. 

Turns out, it was McCoy’s advice about relationships that was driving him up a wall. 

He needed to get out of the library, he needed fresh air and time alone to think through the last hour. It would be best to take some time to himself. It’d allow him to let go of everything the doctor had stirred up and get back to his job.

Problem was, any thought of walking away was countered with the thought of Harold. Was he really okay? How long would it take for him to recover? Would he be content with never being let out into the field again?

(Of course, there were only two questions that really mattered:  _ is that really how he feels? Could McCoy be right?  _ )

John wanted to leave just as he planned but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He could only make his way back to the room in silence, unsure of what he was doing but continuing on nonetheless.

“You know, you both are the biggest idiots this side of the galaxy.” He shouldn’t be eavesdropping but here they were. His hand was on the door, having been ready to finally step inside, but hearing that comment stopped the man in his tracks.

“‘The galaxy’, doctor?” John can only imagine how much Finch’s eyebrow rose at that, the very thought bringing a faint smile.

“Just a figure of speech.”  _ Sure it is.  _ Which, speaking of, how was he ever going to explain that one to Finch? Should he even bother?

“I see. May I ask, why are we both idiots? For being unable to prevent Makris from getting his hands on Lou?”  _ Don’t blame yourself for that, Harold. That wasn’t your fault.  _ “I admit, that was an unfortunate oversight––”

“That’s not it at all!” 

‘Then I’m afraid I’ll need further elaboration, Doctor McCoy.”

“‘Further elaboration’? ‘ _ Further elaboration’ _ ?” Sounded like Finch was in for quite the lecture. Not that John felt much sympathy –– he was right there with the doctor. His friend sounded as though he was berating himself for events he had no control over. “You’re not only content to play reckless games with life, you think that that’s all there’s left for you! You don’t stop to consider that there’s more to life than a _heroic_ death, that maybe there’s something worth living for!”

_ That better not be true, Finch.  _

(It could be true for him, but he would not allow it to be true for his friend.)

“Doctor McCoy, I’m afraid I have to disagree with you. My work with Mr. Reese  _ is _ what I live for.” John stilled, knowing they were in dangerous territories. The kind of territories people like him didn’t have the right to breach. 

He still couldn’t bring himself to leave. And he definitely wasn’t about to make his presence known.

“Is that so? Because I have to wonder about that,”

“Doctor, you hardly know us. There’s nothing to wonder about.”

“I know you were all too glad to be taking that bullet because it meant he hadn’t gotten shot.” Finch was inhaling sharply, the action loud enough to hide John’s own feelings on the subject. “I know that if he had gotten shot, you would’ve worked yourself to death trying to save him. Probably would’ve worsened your condition in the process, at least for a while if not permanently.”

“John is someone I care for, yes.” The man in question closed his eyes at this, unable to ignore what he heard in those words. These were not the words of an employer. 

(So, maybe, McCoy was right. At least about one thing.)

“But it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

“Whatever you may think you see, Doctor McCoy,”

“You mean, the truth that’s right in front of us.”

“Whatever you may suspect, surely you also understand that it cannot happen. Not only would it be detrimental to our operation, it would be downright irresponsible to mention 'the truth'."

( _ What?) _

“How do you figure that?”

“The people we work to save need someone to save them. My end of the operations is programmable, expendable. John’s capability to take action is not.”  _ That’s not true and you know it. _ None of this worked without him. Harold was the one who was irreplaceable. 

“I don't believe that for one minute! And even if I did, I still don’t get why you couldn’t just say something,”

“We have a system, Doctor McCoy. It’s more than functional, it’s effective. And if we were to deviate in that system, it would collapse. It is only logi––”

“Don’t you dare say that word!”

“All right. The only  _ rational  _ course of action to take is to maintain that system.”

“Is that really all this is to you? A ‘system’?” McCoy wasn’t the only one who wanted to know, that was for sure. 

“Of course not!" There was heat in that tone, a kind John rarely heard from Harold. He liked it. "It’s a partnership. An interaction I never thought possible. But in order for it to exist, it must remain as is.”

“You think he’s in love with someone else, don’t you?” John was staring into the door, unwilling to believe what he was hearing. “You can quote your system all you want, Harold. But you’re just hiding from something that ain’t even true.”

“Your statement is only further proof of your lack of knowledge, Doctor.” 

“Sure it is. So who is it?”

“I can assure you––”

“It’s not a girlfriend that's still alive and kicking, is it?”

“Jessica Arndt was so much more than that.” John was grateful Harold felt this strongly, his friend unable to keep the emotion out of his voice. It helped. “They should have been married, they  _ could _ have been married if it wasn’t for me.” 

“Now that can’t be true. Whatever happened to her, it can’t be your fault.”

“But you see, it was. If I had been more capable, more efficient, she would still be alive.”

_ Don’t say that.  _ It was true that John had been angry at Harold, both for keeping that a secret and for being unable to save her. But it was just as true that he held himself far more responsible, that he was the one who should’ve been there in time. 

“You’re not a machine, Harold! Surely you can’t hold this against yourself,”

“Without her, he was lost. I think, in some ways, he still  _ is _ lost.” The man had to close his eyes at this, unable to help himself. “Oh, I can pretend that this job has given him a purpose, a reason to keep going. And, perhaps, in some ways, it really has. But I know full well that, at the end of the day, this is only a job for him. If he could trade this world for one where Jessica remained alive and well –– well, there would be no question as to his decision.”

But this was something Harold was wrong about.  John couldn’t honestly say anymore what he would choose. Jessica would always be a part of his life, but it was different now. Things had changed, more than he thought they could, and he would never  _ ever  _ want to have to make that choice.

“Bull hockey.” Leave it to McCoy to shoot from the hip. Probably had Finch blinking at the words, if not scowling again. “I’m sure he grieves for her to this day, but the rest of that is complete bull hockey.”

“Don’t be so sure––”

“But I am, Harold. Just as sure as I am that you’ve got feelings for him. Feelings that go beyond friendship.”

“You’re not interested in desisting in this matter, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Will you let it go if I inform you of the truth?”

“Yup.” 

John didn’t know what he’d do once he found out. He only knew he had to know. 

Finch was sighing, probably nodding in resignation at the request.

(Having experienced a similar interrogation only minutes ago, John couldn’t help but feel some sympathy for his friend. McCoy on the warpath was something else altogether.) 

“So be it.”

John tensed as an atmosphere descended on them. There was no telling where this would go. Luckily, wherever it went, he could and would be ducking out as inconspicuously as possible. Harold never had to know he'd been here, that was the joy of being on the other side of this door. 

“Well? What’s the truth? We haven’t got all day, you know!”

This silence was far more painful than any of the others from the last couple of days. Finch’s lack of words after getting shot, the hush that descended on the car as they careened through the streets, none of those moments came close to the tension of these precious seconds.

“Yes.”

A breath escapes him, but it’s nothing as loud as the doctor’s exclamation: “‘Yes’? That’s _it_?”

“What would you have me say, Doctor? Would you like to hear me confess that I was willing to use violence to break him out of Rikers? Would it make a difference to know that when he lowered his gun, when let me defuse that bomb, I could have cried from the relief? That when I knew he’d found me, when he helped me get up from the floor of that train station, I thought it all to be a dream I thoroughly did _not_ deserve?"

“Well, yeah, that’s a good start. But it’d be an even better start if you told him all that yourself.”

“And just how am I supposed to do that, hmm? ‘Mr. Reese, I may struggle with human interaction, but I don’t struggle with you’? Or, better yet, ‘Mr. Reese, I find Grace is but a fond memory whenever you’re near. I will always love her, but I am  _ in love _ with you’?” Finch was scoffing, his self-deprecating thoughts clear as day. “Please believe me when I say it wouldn’t work.”

“Wouldn’t it?”

“Mr. Reese?” Harold is trying to rise, stammering away as the door fully opens. But John’s already crossed the distance in milliseconds, needing him to stay still and to take care of himself. 

(And, yes, he’s the one who asked this time. Not McCoy.)

“How about I step away for a minute, let you two sort this one out for yourselves?” John barely registers a book being snatched up, the sound of bolting footsteps not far behind. He can only focus on the red splotches that have spread from Finch’s ears to his face, that and the fact that the man’s eyes are giving every bit of emotion away.

It really is true.

(It’s all  _ actually  _ possible.)

“Mr. Reese, I’m not sure what you heard,”

He wasn’t about to let his friend get out of this one, not now. “Enough.”

That apparently hadn’t been the right thing to say. His friend was now gripping his bedsheets, mortified, “In that instance, I completely apologize for my previous remarks. Not only were they extraordinarily inappropriate–– Mr. Reese, what are you doing?”

He's easing the linens out of Harold’s reach, gently reaching out to take hold of his hands instead,“Did you mean what you said?”

“Well,” Finch looks to be malfunctioning, unable to process the possibilities before him. “Well, to confirm, what exactly do you believe me to have said?”

“Everything.” That’s apparently too vague of an answer for the king of cryptic remarks, “Our 'system'. The train station. Rikers. ‘Yes’.” 

Harold’s remaining questions fall into nothing, quieting down. John lets him hold onto this for the time being, knowing this is not an easy conversation. They'll have to talk about this, but he can let the subject rest for a moment. He watches as splotches ease up into pinker tones. He notes how their hands are now touching. And he gives a soft smile as hesitant eyes are finally peering up.

“I did say I would never lie to you, didn’t I?” It’s less of a tease, more of a candidly quiet reminder. John can’t help his eyes widening, incredulity escaping. Harold’s grip tightens briefly, tentative yet wanting to reassure.  But when nothing else is said, the recluse can only assume the worst.

“I understand, of course, that you do not reciproca––” There wasn’t going to be any of that. John was going to show Harold that _everything_ was reciprocated if that was the last thing he did….

* * *

  
  


It really was considered a classic for good reasons. Even he could admit there was a captivating spell to the words.

(Though, really, that was probably because he was missing them all like hell. And these words may not be a real substitute but they are something.)

“‘I must go down to the seas again,’” Leonard knew these lines far too well, having clung to them from the moment he saw  _ Salt-Water Ballads  _ on the bookshelf. “‘To the lonely sea and the sky.’”

“‘And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.” He fingered that line once again, relieved he had a bit of home to hold onto. This definitely was Jim’s kind of book, not his. And yet it managed to be the most comforting part of the last two days. “You got your wish, didn’t you?”

_ If only I could get mine. _

But he would make due with the cards he’d been dealt. He would need some time to figure out what to do next, and he definitely wasn’t giving up. Still, if he could adjust to being beamed left and right on the  _ Enterprise _ , he could survive living here.

“Yeah, well, that’s life for you.” Things changed. Steps were taken, plans were made, and sometimes all of that was swept aside. Coming back to his time, making it back home should’ve been a guarantee, that was true. 

But nothing was a guarantee. And if he wanted to keep on preaching that to the idiots of the 21st century, he would have to keep that in mind for himself. He would have to promise not to take life for granted. If he ever wound up in a relationship like theirs, he would have to be honest and upfront about the whole thing instead of keeping his feelings secret.

(Problem is, he knows he’ll never meet anyone like Jim and Spock ever again. They are the real once-in-a-lifetime deal, and that’s all that can be said about the subject.)

“Hold on a moment.” Something was changing in the atmosphere, something he hadn’t felt in a long while, something that should’ve driven him berserk but something he'd dearly missed. He felt the air vanishing, shifting into something else. He could sense his body begin to fade, and the thought of his atoms scattering across space was now more appealing than ever before.

_ Thank you. _

He didn’t know what changed. He couldn’t say for sure what prompted this. All he knew was that the book was falling out of his hands before he had a chance to put it back. That, and there were two individuals waiting for him on the other side. 

And when he finally made it back, “Bones?” “Doctor McCoy, is everything all right?” 

His mind never did their voices justice.

Pulling them in, squeezing the daylights out of the both of them, listening to their bewilderment –– but  _ not _ hearing a single protest about the embrace –– he found this helped more than anything they could have said. _This_ was the best form of justice he could find, this was what he'd needed most of all.

“I’m okay.” Yup, he was crying. And he wasn’t ashamed of any of it. He’d go to counseling, he’d let the tears out, but first and foremost he needed this. He needed to know he was really back. “I’m okay.”

No one questioned it. The nearby officers averted their gazes, chalking the whole experience up to whatever excuse seemed to fit. As for his friends, they were still bewildered.  But by the end of it they had started to get the message. They might not be ready to take any other steps just yet, but they were getting the picture.

And  _ that  _ in itself was as good a start as any.


End file.
